


La Cerilla Y La Marioneta (The Matchstick and The Marionette)

by VenusTheMarvelTurtle



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Angst, Cameos, Excessive use of Spanish, F/M, Flag is So Done, Getting Together, Harley Hasn't Left Yet, Metahumans, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Poor Santanas, References to Aztec Religion & Lore, Romance, Team as Family, The Squad takes a Road Trip to Mexico, Waller gives no fucks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-12 17:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7942657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenusTheMarvelTurtle/pseuds/VenusTheMarvelTurtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weakened and wounded after its battle with the Enchantress, the entity known as El Diablo returns to the only place it has ever called home, with Amanda Waller and her Meta-seeking bloodhounds hot on its heels.</p><p>When Maribel Luisa finds a thin, freezing man in a shed at the edge of the Mexican desert with no name, a past he won't talk about, and tattoos he can't read but that she can, hiding her own peculiarity goes from hard to impossible. His power calls to hers; a wild, ancient force begging to be tamed, and as she tugs at his strings, it tugs right back, slowly but surely bringing the dark core of her ability to the surface.</p><p>(Meanwhile, The Squad takes its first ever vacation. Lord help us. And Rick Flag.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. El Hombre y El Monstruo

**Author's Note:**

> Because FUCK DC. Diablo didn't die. They spent the whole movie making me love him, and then they kill him in that bullshit way?! AND I'M LATINA? No no no. 
> 
> My heart was bleeding after the end of Suicide Squad, so this is my way of self medicating LOLZ. Contains an OC, but well written and relevant, I swear. Reviews would be AWESOME.

_In Aztec mythology, Xiuhtecuhtli was the god of fire, day and heat. He was the lord of volcanoes, the personification of life after death, warmth in cold, light in darkness._

_Vengeful and powerful, he was also known to be a god of Duality that often walked the earth after the sun went down, seeking out flames to devour and young mortal women in which to kindle desire._

_Those brave enough to follow his charred footsteps into the desert were said to find power and prosperity on the other side- and occasionally, passion._

* * *

 

The creature was not one for reflection or remembrance, but as it wandered endlessly through sun bleached valleys and bare dunes, it couldn't help but think longingly of times past when the world was savage and harsh, when the ancients had control over all and those who were inferior knew their place as lowly devotees and sacrificial fodder.

The creature was strong then, unfettered and free in its domain over all that burned. Blood had flown freely from still beating hearts, nourishing it with a steady supply of life and vitality, and it's power was so absolute that it could torch forests and set lakes alight simply by force of whim.

Now, though... Now it stumbled desperately through the wild, barely strong enough to set scraps of kindling ablaze in order to keep its host from passing into the next life night after night.

Had it not been for the will of the human it was bound to, it would have gladly accepted the offer of the younger beings and allowed this new world to rot. But that was its curse- once so powerful and commanding, made slave to the emotions of the host who possessed the warrior blood, but clearly not the spirit.

It had been forced to fight to save a world it despised and received exile in return.

The creature was as old as existence, spawned from the first spark at the dawn of time. But with each new host its power grew fewer and fewer, and the younger god had nearly bested it in their contest. The human weapon hadn't killed it- forged from flame and heat, how could it?- but the host was another matter.

It had taken almost all of the creature's strength to bring the man back from the brink of destruction and reform them both, bond intact (for without the bond the creature would cease to be), at the place where the creature had first existed.

It had been dismayed and enraged to find its once beautiful kingdoms ravaged. _Toluca, Ocuilan,_ even the once grand _T_ _enochtitlan_ , all overridden and destroyed by the oppressive stink of humans and human machines, warped into mortal breeding grounds.

Too weak to raze them to ashes and with the gates of _Omeyocan_ closed to the creature forever, they could only wander away from civilization, man by day and creature by night.

The man sought only peace, but the creature needed power. The priests and sorcerers that would have given it their energy were eons gone and their blood was diluted into nothingness. Their descendants were useless. 

And yet what it needed was there, far away from the smog of human greed and weakness. The smallest whiff past the horizon, reminiscent of one the creature had once known and stood beside as a master of all, sweet and tantalizing and begging to be absorbed.

So on they marched, the man towards oblivion, and the creature towards power and revenge.

 


	2. El Soldado

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a review junkie, soooo.... yeah XD. Feed my addiction, por favor.

_There once was an Aztec queen- her name has been lost to time- that came to power after assassinating her father and brothers. She was notably cruel and vicious, earning the moniker 'Reina De Sangre'. Her first order after taking the throne was to have her sisters, young children, sacrificed to cement her rule. She despised men, and often had her lovers and advisers executed when they displeased her._

* * *

Rick Flag had really thought he was done with being Amanda Waller's bullshit guard dog.

She'd gotten what she wanted, after all. The UN had granted her a permit for her little fall-guy squad and they'd gotten the job done, more or less. She'd proven her point and made herself a national hero at the expense of a ruined city and a body count she and her cronies could live with.

Granted, the threats didn't stop coming after they'd taken care of the Enchantress- they'd gotten worse, actually, and more frequent, requiring the squad to see daylight much more often.

Had June still been afflicted with her curse, this would've meant a massive headache for one General Rick Flag. But after retrieving Quinn from Joker (for the third time), he'd finally called it quits and appointed one of his subordinates in his place, adding years to his freaking life.

He heard them fizzling away as he watched and listened to the gates scraping open mockingly slow, revealing the gaping maw of Belle Reeve Penitentiary waiting to swallow him whole and spit him back out just a little bit more mangled. With each step he took down the sloping gravel walkway, the lines in his face sunk deeper into his skin and he practically felt the hairs on the back of his neck turning grey as they lifted away from his clammy skin.

There he was, marching to meet with the devil while his pregnant wife waited at home, alone, probably on the verge of a full blown anxiety attack. He hated himself for heeding Waller's whistle like a good little jar head, but the spec ops soldier in him wouldn't let him settle in domestic life as easily as he thought he could. A part of him remembered the danger and the rush, and missed it in spades.

Genuine guilt and sorrow curdled low in his gut when he passed the cold metal tube that used to house Santana sitting silent and empty in the corner of the yard. He had't batted an eye when he killed SlipKnot, or when contemplating blowing Quinn's head off, but Santana...the order to activate the bomb still kept him up at night, even when so many other things didn't.

The man had wanted to find peace, but that didn't mean Flag had wanted him to find it that way, and not on his orders. 

Flag's face was stony, but his heart leaped a little in a mixture of queasy excitement as he rounded the metal walkway and came into view of Quinn's cage, lit up with spotlights like an exhibit at the zoo. He averted his eyes and sent up a quick prayer that it would be empty-

"RICK-YYY!"

-and was evidently ignored. He clenched his teeth together and resolved to keep walking, eyes ahead and fingers tight on the hilt of his weapon.

Down below, Quinn turned a cartwheel off her bunk and scampered over to press her face into the bars, uninterested with the immediate skittish response on behalf of the dozen guards stationed around her cell.

"Rick-yyy~", she sang, tracking his movements with gleefully cruel blue eyes. "Ricky's back. HEY GUYS, RICK'S BACK!" She threw her arms wide and spun in a dizzying circle, yelling his name at the top of her lungs. "HE'S BACK, EVERYBODY, COME SAY HI!"

Thankfully, the runway ended before she could blurt anything else, and he was spared the hassle of having to interact with any other prisoners as his guide veered him toward Waller's office. Ironically, he felt more anxiety and dread approaching the unassuming door than walking into the belly of a super prison. The door was cracked, and he waved his guard away before pushing it open with his knuckles.

Waller- smirk, pantsuit, and all- was tapping benignly away at a laptop behind her desk. She glanced at him as he eased in and nodded once, like she'd timed him. She probably had. "Take a seat and close the door."

No hello, no please, no thank you, as usual.

Flag plopped down awkwardly into the chair across from her, trying not to look directly into her face. He'd worn civvies to make a point, but the decision felt more and more stupid the longer he sat there and listened to her jabbing at keys and judging his attire out the corner of her eye. He cleared his throat and slumped a little, spreading his knees out like he wasn't ready to cut and run. She lifted a sharply waxed eyebrow and quirked her mouth up into a bemused smile, seeing right through him.

Finally, she drew her fingers away from the computer and laced them together in front of her breast like an executive at a business meeting. "Rick," she started. "Long time, no see."

"What's this about, Waller? I ain't in charge anymore. You got an issue with the squad, you talk to Slater," Flag interrupted, as sudden and bluntly as he dared.

There- straight forward, precise. Head her off at the pass, give her no time to manipulate him. 

Waller gave her eyes a quick roll, like she was dealing with a difficult child. "Slater's a moron, they hate him. Digger's tried to kill him twice now. He just doesn't have your brand of charm, I suppose." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "That's an interesting little name you've got for them, Rick. The  _Squad_." She chuckled drily. "Sounds like you've developed a bit of a soft spot for those freaks."

Flag squared his shoulders defensively. "Maybe you need to get your hearing checked, then."

The smirk grew fractionally. He was only feeding the beast, he knew. She thrived on conflict, loved crushing defiance.

"Retirement's made you feisty, I see."

Flag hoped the sound of his molars grinding together was only audible inside his own skull. "Why am I here, _Amanda_? Since we're being so damn friendly."

Waller reached beneath the desk and dragged open a drawer, lifting a stack of folders out and dropping them heavily in front of him. "Bombs, Flag."

"I'm not a Demo expert," Flag snorted, the muscles in his back tensing as she started rifling through the folders nonchalantly. Delicately, she withdrew a file that he recognized as the official Mission Report of the Enchantress incident, signed with his own handwriting.

"I'd like to talk about one bomb in particular," she continued, like he hadn't spoken, picking through the documents. "An SBP-04-ADWAT mine?"

A knot twisted itself into Flag's lower belly. He didn't know where this was headed, but he was sure it was no place good. "What about it?"

Waller sniffed and paused on a specific page, play acting as though it was the first time she'd ever read it. "It killed the Enchantress' brother and, as I recall, Chato Santana, alias El Diablo?"

He swallowed dryly with no saliva, forcing his memory away from flashbacks of Diablo's last moments. "Yeah. You knew that already, don't pretend like you didn't."

Her lip curled slightly. "Your mission report mentioned that he was killed by the explosive in an act of self sacrifice. How touching." He bristled at her cold, callous tone and, as expected, she ignored him. "It also mentioned the specifics of the mine. The heat and force produced by the ADWAT was approximately 1,832 degrees Fahrenheit, correct?"

Flag grunted, crossing his arms in his lap. "And?"

She stared at him for a second, then closed his file with a snap. "Do you know how hot the warmest part of a flame is, Flag?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me," he grumbled, patience steadily wearing thin by her circular rhetoric. 

"2,732 degrees Fahrenheit." She slid his report to the side and chose another, this one marked with the seals of Gotham General Hospital and Arkham Asylum's Research Department. "Before selecting him for the team, I had some tests run on Santana while he was Incarcerated. We took some skin to a lab and discovered that his highest possible heat threshold was 9,939 degrees Fahrenheit."

"So?"

Both eyebrows shot up to her hairline, and Flag was childishly satisfied to see her beginning to look irritated. " _So_? That's the temperature of the goddamn _sun_ , Flag."

That was...okay, he hadn't known that, and he thought that maybe he should have before she sent him on a save-the-world-or-die mission with the guy. But still, it was all moot.

"What does any of this matter?" Flag growled. "Ch-Santana's dead."

Waller's eyes narrowed like a stalking wolf's. "Oh, yeah? You saw his body?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but found the words stuck in his throat. They'd seen a crater, yes... but no body, no pieces...nothing to indicate death by explosion.

Waller let him slowly think through his answer before continuing in her vein, watching the gears turn in his head with a superior air. "How exactly did Santana overpower the Enchantress' brother? Your report was noticeably...slim on those details."

"He just...I..."

"I spoke with Lawton and Harkness," she cut in, waving him silent. If he didn't know any better, he would have said she was getting jittery. She was definitely coming to the end of her spiel. "They claimed that he...'transformed'." She tilted her head, tapping her flawless nails on the varnished wood of the desktop and running the tip of her tongue along her lower lip. "Their exact words were, 'big-ass fiery bone monster' and 'some kind of freaky Halloween shit'."

Flag raked his fingers backwards through his shaggy hair and rubbed at a headache that was throbbing behind his eyelid. "Get to the point, Waller, Jesus."

"I assuming you don't know much about Aztec mythology, Rick." Abruptly, she went back to the laptop and clicked a few keys.

Flag bit back his instinctual reply of 'you know what they say about assuming', remembering at the last minute that this was a woman practiced in making his life a living Hell.

"One of their gods was named Xiuhtecuhtli." She looked up at his confused frown and smiled, almost apologetically. "It's a mouthful, I know, but try to keep up. He was a fire god, and supposedly looked...like... _this_."

She turned the device towards him and pushed it damn-near into his lap. Flag peered closer at the jpeg on the screen, and his eyelashes touched his forehead in a reaction he couldn't stop fast enough as an artists rendition of... whatever Santana had become glowered back at him, give or take a few details. The date on the picture was at the bottom of the frame in tiny black print-  **13th Cent., B.C.**

"Look familiar?"

Flag tore his eyes away from the laptop screen and met her dark, hungry gaze over the edge of the device, balking and alarmed at the expression of ravenous excitement taking over her features, making her look like a starving carnivore. "There are legends of this god having been punished a thousand years ago by being bound to the bloodline of an Aztec warrior." She leaned back in her seat like she'd just proven the existence of the Almighty-which, in a way, she had.

"So tell me, Flag. Do you really think that little land mine of yours could have killed a god that was said to have made the sun by sneezing into his hand and throwing his snot into the fucking sky?"

He gaped at her, not knowing whether to laugh or check her for signs of stroke. "You can't seriously believe any of this."

Her smile was more of a sneer, curling over her pearly canines. "Pretty rich coming from a man that's been banging the vessel of an inter-dimensionary sorceress." His face reddened, and she pressed a hand to her chest in mock chagrin. "Excuse me- _former_ vessel."

"One last time, Waller," Flag snapped, nails biting down into the padding of his armrests. "Why. Am. I. Here?"

Waller took his anger in stride, still visibly excited. "Simply put? I think El Diablo is alive, and I want you to track him down."

Flag threw himself back in his chair, huffing out a bark of humorless laughter. "So that's it. A witch hunt for a friggin' dead man." He shook his head and stood briskly, resolving to leave her and her mania behind for good. "I'm out of here."

Her next, quiet little sentence stopped him cold.

"How's June, Rick?"

Flag screeched to a stop with his hand an inch from the doorknob, a layer of goosebumps rising up thick along his arms. He knew that voice, feared it, hated it, and it froze him solid like a deer in the headlights.

"...Fine."

He heard her necklace shift against her collar as she nodded slowly. "Mm. I heard about the baby. Give her my best, would you?"

Flag winced, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but all she did was start typing again. Five, ten, twenty seconds passed in silence, and he went to leave again, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he'd be allowed to.

"Oh, and Flag? Give her this, too."

He twisted around in time to see her pull one last folded document out of her drawer and wave it in his direction. She didn't react when he, against his better judgement, snatched it from her grip and split the seal with his thumb. He flipped it open and scanned it quickly, once, then again with growing horror at what he saw, roving his eyes faster and faster over the neat, clinical words while his jaw hit the floor.

"What is...Waller-?"

Her smile was full and wickedly large, and all she was missing was the fluffy little feather at the corner of her burgundy lip. "That? That is an arrest warrant from the United Nations Judicial Committee, issued for one June Moone to stand trial for crimes against humanity."

Flag's kneecaps weakened until he was no longer able to stand. He collapsed down into the chair, shaking and stunned, staring into her fang-like grin.

Slaughtering an entire data team, sacrificing a group of criminals for her own reputation, ordering Lawton to shoot Quinn in the skull... all of that, he could understand, and maybe even defend. But threatening a pregnant woman?

"You evil b-..." He pitched forward over his knees, almost too angry to curse. Sweat trickled down his brow, and fury pounded through him like a second, nauseating heartbeat. "You can't do this. You can't. I swear to god I won't let you...You...- _the Enchantress did that shit, not June!"_

He was screaming at that point, rattling the glass in the picture frame by her elbow, but she was completely unfazed, actually having the nerve to shrug in his face. "Moone, Enchantress... the UN doesn't give a damn, as long as someone pays for what was done. And neither do I. You can't stop it, Flag... Unless, of course, you come back to the initiative, and bring me Santana, alive. Do that, and I make sure the Feds don't smash in your door, tranquilize your little bride, and throw her in a cell on her ass." She crossed her legs and jiggled her ankle easily, puckering her lips at him in an almost pitying gesture. "I'm no expert, but I'd say that's not a very good experience for a soon-to-be mommy to go through."

Like a match in a vacuum, Flag's rage flickered out as the gravity of what she was saying finally sank in. She'd maneuvered him neatly into this latest trap, and he was stuck like a mouse under the cat's claws- except this time, he wasn't the only one in danger of being devoured.

There was nothing he could do, aside from lose everything trying to be a stubborn hard-ass. And Rick Flag may have been a soldier, but he wasn't stupid.

He slouched back in his seat, eyes on his toes and defeat clear in every line of his body. "You at least sending a Hero?" he pleaded weakly.

Waller snorted derisively and blinked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Are you kidding? Santana's much too powerful, even for the Bat. We've already got one dead national hero. I'm not going to be responsible for another. You're taking the squad, of course."

Flag sighed with every cell he possessed and wiped his lips with a shaking hand, knuckles white beneath his skin. If Diablo was alive...

Surprisingly, the first emotion he felt wasn't anger, or hysteria about a criminal being loose among the populace. It was just...sorrow. Resignedness. "Why can't you just...let him be?" he breathed, nearly whispered. "Let him stay dead? It's been so long, and he hasn't done anything wrong- if he's out there, that is."

Waller let out a happy, menacing little laugh that left a sour taste in his mouth. "Flag, I had an Aztec god under my thumb, and I didn't even know it. You think I'm going to let that kind of power pass me by a second time?" Anger swam briefly to the surface of her bottomless eyes, and her fingers tightened on the crumpling paper in her grasp like she was imagining them around Santana's throat. "The bastard slipped away once, but it will not happen again."

Her expression smoothed suddenly, shifting from thundercloud back to amused in a millisecond. "You'll make sure of that, won't you?"

There was only one thing left to say.

"...Yes, ma'm. I will."

_Bark, fucking Bark. Welcome back._


	3. La Caminata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more brief check in with Diablo, and then we meet Maribel. Translations at the end, and I might re-edit because hey, it's what I do. This might be the shortest chapter I've ever published EVER- I promise the next one will be super long to make up for it!

 

 

 

 

> _The Chihuahua desert is the largest in North America and covers 200,000 square miles of territory in the US and Mexico. It is a harsh environment where only the hardiest species survive. Native peoples would send criminals into the desert on death marches, knowing they had no chance of making it to the other side alive._

* * *

 

Chato Santana wondered when he would just be allowed to fucking die already. 

Not that he was exactly excited to see where he'd end up- even though he was pretty sure he had a clue, but hey, maybe  _el jefe_ would cut him some slack- and he wasn't overly suicidal. If he was, he would've pulled a  _guero_ and eaten a bullet after the house fire, instead of facing the music and trying to repent for it the long, miserable way.

Harley had been right, in that regard. Her words cut him to the quick with how true they were, at least relating to what he had done. Taking himself out or blaming anyone else for what happened wouldn't make his kids less dead, or his own ass less responsible. He didn't recall much from the few frantic seconds before he'd given over to the beast inside him and jumped on the witch's helper, but he did know that he hadn't been thinking about himself at all. In those seconds, he'd had a clear moment free of self pity, and he'd done what needed to be done for his family- for both his families.

He wasn't sure how he was alive, but he quickly began to wish that he wasn't. And had he been normal, that wish would have been granted fairly easily.

The thing inside him had a different agenda, apparently. It wasn't even giving him the option of checking out, forcing him to keep trekking further and further into the wherever-the-hell-he-was desert. He hadn't seen another person since he'd woken up half buried in a dune in the middle of sandy, cactus filled fucking _nowhere_ with a full body sunburn, achingly sore limbs and no shoes whatsoever, no sign of  _el escuadrón_ or anything else he remembered happening before his memory was cut with agony and blackness. 

He was certain death would have been better than blistering, oozing feet and sucking in dry, grit filled gasps that felt like barbed wire being force-fed down his throat. His eyes boiled in their reddened sockets even when he closed them and hunger clawed at his insides like a wild animal, to the point where it turned to nausea and he started throwing up everything in his stomach- which at that point, was just sour shit and water.

There were no signs, no buildings, nothing to indicate that the world was either saved or scrapped. Nothing but sun and heat he didn't feel until it was peeling in thick layers off of his shoulders at night, thorn filled feet and cracked, bleeding lips.

_Cuarenta días y cuarenta noches..._

The bible had to have been about white boys, not Mexicans, and definitely not Mexicans from L.A. If this was his test, then he wasn't going to pass. He was weak. He was drained. He was ready to lay it down and have it all be done with,  _dalegas y vete a hogar._

And still, every time he staggered to a stop as the sun set and the temperature dropped low enough to create halos of frost around his face, vehemently hoping that the cold and the coyotes and the vultures might finally end his hike from Hell, he'd wake up the next morning in a different section of desert with a glassy path burned into the sand behind him and no recollection of ever moving. 

_El Diablo_  wasn't letting him go, and truth be told was really pissing him off. For whatever reason, the monster wasn't done with him. He could hear it in his head sometimes, in his less lucid moments, muttering angrily in a language he didn't understand and stewing in resentment separate from his own wrung out emotions. But it refused to say anything directly to him.

He probably wouldn't have known what it was talking about even if it did, but he still would have appreciated the fucking effort. An explanation would have been nice, or maybe an apology. _'Lo siento por su vida follando hasta, Chato.'_   Unless, of course, he was hallucinating about it talking at all. He was supposed to be _loco_ after all, and he doubted the 100 degree exposure was helping.

He wondered if the others were dead, and if his dumb-ass martyr move had saved them or been for absolutely nothing. He wondered if maybe  _he_ was dead, and this was the eternal torment his _abuela_ always threatened him with when she got in his ass about leaving the streets alone. He wondered and thought until he didn't have the energy to think.

By the time the sun went down for the tenth time, he was barely in control of his own movements, half consciously sleepwalking _como un zombi_  . The pain in his gut had spread up his spine and out to the rest of him, compounding a clenching, vein deep numbness built from starvation, thirst and exhaustion that was worse than being caught in the rain he'd always avoided like the plague. 

He sensed the shed looming out of the inky darkness more than he saw it, nearly walking straight past it. There was no point in hoping it would protect him from anything, but he thought he might as well bite it with a roof over his damn head. He took one step towards it with the last of the energy in his lower half and felt his legs give out, bringing him collapsing to his knees in the sharp gravel with a hoarse yell.

Shaking, struggling to draw in one strangled breath after another, he watched in horrified fascination as his arms and legs scrabbled desperately at the ground, clawing and kicking and dragging him into the tiny shack at a slug's crawl against his own will. He begged, pleaded, prayed. 

He wanted his cage back. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to see his family, even for just a second, if it was truly _el fuego_ that waited on him. He wanted...

_Dejame morir, Cabrón. Dejame morir. Dejame..._

It ignored him, and he almost had to laugh about it. When was the last time he'd gotten what he wanted?

Deserved, sure, but never wanted. 

With the last of the strength in his muscles, he slowly curled up on his side on the floor of the shelter and pressed his cheek into the dirt, breathing in the dry dust with relish, happy just from the sensation of laying down. His bones and muscles screamed with overstretched, overworked pain that slowly faded as unconsciousness crept nearer.

He figured this was it, and all he could think was  _finally, finally, finally._

Better here than Waller's cell. Better with his last act as something good. Better while he was alone, with his thoughts and _su dios._

On the verge of passing out, he felt a warm vibration in his bones as the monster stirred, creeping through and over his flesh the way it did whenever he lost control. He waited for the structure around him to catch fire as the feeling built-thinking deliriously how ironic that shit would be, him dying in a giant bonfire- but instead of igniting his surroundings like he expected It squirmed, coiled, gathered, and  _pushed_ before eventually falling still with no damage dealt.

A wave of dizziness crashed over him as the air around him heated and rippled like jello, shuddering with strange contractions that were almost audible, but he only had eyes for the tiny, valiantly flickering flame cupped in his outstretched fingers that was struggling to maintain a human shape, blinking back tears as it dipped and swayed for him one last time.

When he had nothing, he'd had her. He'd been there for her last moments- only right that she be there for his.

_Soy viniendo, Vieja. Espérame..._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> El jefe: Boss
> 
> Guero: Slang for white person, "white boy"
> 
> El escuadrón: The squad
> 
> Abuela: Grandmother
> 
> El Fuego: The fire
> 
> Dlegas y vete a hogar: Let it go and go home
> 
> Lo siento por su vida follando hasta: Sorry for fucking up your life.
> 
> Como un zombi: Like a zombie
> 
> Dejame morir: Let me die
> 
> Su dios: His god
> 
> "Soy viniendo, vieja. Espérame...": I'm coming. Wait for me...
> 
> (NOTE: Vieja literally means old lady, but it's used to signify a girlfriend or wife. Member the movie when Diablo said 'my old lady'? Yup.)


End file.
